


Ends and Begennings

by DragonWinglet



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: And Dick's a hipster, M/M, Nothing to see here, OOC, Wally is a painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWinglet/pseuds/DragonWinglet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wally West has been painting a mural for as long as he can remember. But as that comes to a close, he can't seem to end it and feel satisfied. With the addition of the hot, hipster barista working at the campus coffee shop, everything is changing. For better or worse. One door closes, another opens! Warning: OOC. Painter AU. Wally's a painter. BirdFlash</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ends and Begennings

**Author's Note:**

> I no own. They're kinda OOC. I love the idea of a super creative artist Wally. And yeah. Here you go. Don't judge too hard: this was written in three hours.

The trees were lit up with the flames of autumn, crimson, auburn and gold surrounding the cold concrete of the road. Said road had a sense of being slightly abandoned, as if people didn't drive on it often - it definitely didn't seem like anyone lived in that area. There was no interruption to the brightly colored trees lining the sides of the road. The skies were covered with a light dusting of clouds, and the air was fresh, crisp, slightly chilly. It nipped at Wally's nose slightly as he walked through the piled leaves, the shuffling and crunching of the dead plants the only noise he heard, other than the rare interruptions of the sounds of a car driving next to his. His breath came out in small clouds of water vapor.

The wind grabbed his red hair and the ends of his scarf, throwing up a small whirlwind of the leaves near him. Wally didn't seem to notice as he continued walking, his emerald eyes set on a location ahead of himself. It was impossible to see what the location was, but it was obvious that the boy knew where he was going. A light bag was slung over his shoulder, and he shifted it absentmindedly, glancing around himself in a distracted manner before he was met with a break in the trees.

He turned onto the gravel road, walking towards the orderly rows of headstones that made up the cemetery. The rustling of the leaves got louder as the wind picked up, almost as if it was trying to match the melancholy feeling of the graveyard. Wally didn't notice as he avoided the gate, making a beeline for the edge of the place, walking around the fence lining the perimeter. The grass, slowly turning yellow despite the impeccable landscaping of the cemetery, broke underneath his feet in dry crunching noises that seemed to echo in the silent area. He didn't pause as he reached the edge of the area, simply stepping between two trees. Their branches almost formed an archway if you looked close enough.

There was a slight, mostly overgrown path that he followed. To someone that hadn't been there before, it would've been nearly impossible to spot. He followed the path for a few minutes until the woods opened up into a drop off leading down to a river. The sound of the river added to the trees, and it became a veritable cacophony of noise that echoed around his and blocked everything else out.

Stepping out onto an old bridge over the water, Wally breathed deeply through his nose, the water in the air mixing with the crisp air to create his favorite scent. He sat in the middle of the bridge, moving to the side, allowing his legs hang over the edge. His upper body fell back and he let his eyes close, sighing as he layed back onto the worn concrete. He stayed like that for a long while, then sat up, sliding back and sitting at the center of the bridge. He opened the bag, eyes lighting up slightly as he removed the containers of paint from his side. The paintbrushes then tumbled out with a muted clatter as they hit the ground. He looked at the concrete in front of his, taking in the colors already swirling in front of his. A starscape took over a good portion of the bridge, and he smiled at it. His face looked almost uncomfortable in the smile, as if he didn't smile often. This one barely reached his eyes.

Wally only spent a few seconds staring the familiar paint before he stepped from the bridge, approaching a hollowed tree. He moved a black tarp, revealing a collection of paint cans and large paintbrushes. He collected them, as many as he could carry, returning to the main body of the painting. Setting them down with a metallic clump, he looked through what he had until he was looking at a dark blue paint. He popped the lid on it with a paint can opener that had been hiding amongst the paintbrushes in his bag, then turned to the smaller bottles that he'd brought, pouring out a generous amount onto the pallet he held in his right hand. He got to work, methodically painting the blank area in front of his.

By the time Wally stepped back to admire his work, the sun was touching the horizon. The smell of drying paint was combated by the fresh scent of the air and water, and he smiled as he looked over the fresh addition to the mural. The painting was extended almost another foot, the detail undeniable. Wally stared at the paint for a moment, his smile slowly fading, until he turned and put the cans of paint back into the tree. As he walked back towards the cemetery, the happy countenance was completely gone, faded back into the neutral coolness that he'd approached with.

The walk back was again, silent, and he did nothing to break said silence, slowly moving along the edge of the street until he stood outside an apartment building, fumbling for his keys. The person standing in the lobby didn't bother looking up until he was clear to the elevator, then he made a grunting greeting before going back to typing what was definitely his resume as he searched for another job.

His apartment was anything but bare, with canvases with paintings of various stages of completeness on them, cluttered paper piled upon the coffee table, and jackets and shoes thrown all over the couch. An open wall led to a kitchen, were the small table reflected the clutter of the first room. The counters held a general air of disuse, and the dishes were put away cleanly, a neat stack on the drying rack from the evening before. He dropped his bag on the ground next to the door and slowly walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. There wasn't much in there, but a tupperware bowl of spaghetti leftover from a few dinners ago greeted him, and he removed it, putting it in the microwave and walking from the room. He went to the coffee table, where a thick, well-used book sat, and he gathered that and a small pile of charcoal pencils in his hand.

In a halfhearted attempt to organize the table before him, he sorted through a pile of papers, stacking them in a somewhat neat pile that he knew would fall soon, but didn't care about. The loud alarm of the microwave echoed behind him, and he sketched as he sat down to eat, getting both charcoal dust and tomato sauce on his cheek.

The next morning was a hectic one. He'd fallen asleep with his face in his sketchbook the night before, as he generally did, unable to hear his alarm going off in his bedroom. Instead of waking up with enough time to leisurely get ready and eat a good breakfast before class and the dreaded midterms week, he had to sprint around his home, throwing on clothes and diving out the door before he had a chance to get anything to eat.

It was a close thing, but Wally managed to burst into the lecture hall just before his class was about to start. He only got dirty looks from his professor, and settled into the sadly small desk as the professor passed out the History of Art midterm.

After the long class, he yawned as he slowly moved to the campus coffee shop, his stomach growling at him angrily. The man behind the bar was a stereotypical hipster-type, with thick glasses and a shock of turquoise hair nestled in the otherwise ebony locks. He smiled easily and when he approached him, he greeted him jovially.

"Hey, what can I get you?" he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet when he spoke, and Wally had to think for a moment, despite deciding on what he wanted when he'd gotten in line earlier. He shook his head, and heard him chuckle lightly before he spoke.

"Um, just a chocolate muffin and a black coffee, please," he said, his voice quiet. He nodded, typed it in, and told his the price, continuing to speak as he swiped his card.

"Midterms got you dazed? Me too, I'm still kind of freaking over my computing science midterm. It won't be fun. What's your major?" he spoke all too enthusiastically, talking with his hands until he realized that he still had to complete the sale.

"Uhm, it's art?" it came out sounding more like a question than an answer and Wally was kicking himself because of that, but the other didn't seem to mind.

"Oh that's awesome, I can't draw for shit-" he was cut off however, at a throat clearing behind Wally, who quickly ducked his head. "Oh yeah! What's the name on your order?"

"Wally," he said quietly, moving out of the way of the person behind his before they saw fit to shove his.

When his order was ready, the man was busy with another customer, though Wally thought he saw him glance at his out of the corner of his eye. He hurriedly took the coffee and muffin and ran out the door.

A muffin and another midterm later, Wally was slowly walking home, running a hand over his face with an exhausted sigh. He was slowly walking down the street, hands in his jeans pockets, hair long since been ruffled from him running his hand through it. He hadn't been truly watching where he was going, allowing his feet to move without cognitive orders from his mind, and he found himself outside the cemetery gate again. Instead of turning back, he slowly walked around it, looking a the ground under his feet as he walked to the bridge.

He didn't have any supplies, so he just stepped out onto the bridge, looking over the water. The stress of the day slowly sunk in and he sighed, shaking his head.

"Wally? You're not going to jump are you?" a voice interrupted his silent consideration and he did jump, but only slightly, whirling to the person that had addressed his - the attractive hipster from the coffee shop. He glanced at the water, then back at him, and shook his head.

"N-no? What're you doing here?" he replied, not moving towards him. It was his turn to look sheepish.

"I followed you. Well, I mean, I'm not stalking you or anything… I just…" he paused, shaking his head and leaning back away from the bridge. "I mean, I was in the cemetery and watched you walk and was curious and I sound really creepy don't I?" Wally laughed and his eyes lit up.

"You did at first but now you sound bumbling and mildly adorable." He smiled, and the other's face contorted, cheeks flaring red.

"Um… well, I didn't expect you to be so blunt after you stumbled over your order," he said. He shrugged.

"I hadn't had my coffee." He laughs again, and he's struck with how true it sounds. It's a deep noise, coming from the bottom of his stomach, and he had dimples. When he smiled, it reached his eyes.

"That explains everything." he paused and took in the painting below Wally's feet. "Did you do that?" he asked. He shrugged.

"Yeah." He looked over it again, and took a small step towards his, still not moving out to the bridge.

"It's… Exquisite." His head fell so he was looking down slightly at the complement.

"I… Thanks." He knew the response was lame, but he didn't care because when he met his eyes again, he was smiling and that made everything okay.

"Oh, shit," he said, hitting himself on the head. "I forgot. Name's Dick. Grayson. Figured it would be a fair trade because I accidentally stalked you." Wally laughed again, stepping towards him, holding out a hand.

"Wally. But you… already knew that," he laughed again, awkwardly this time, smiling at him. The smile faded however, as he remembered why he was there. "Do you… know someone in this cemetery?" he asked, biting his lip. His face fell for a moment, the smile leaving it and he wanted to bring it back, so he quickly stuttered out something along the lines of "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I… well, my parents. He got into an... accident a while back. It's been a while, but, I mean… yeah," he finished lamely, shrugging awkwardly. A thick silence permeated between the two of them, and after a moment of shifting weight and shuffling feet, Dick cleared his throat.

"Well, I… should… like, leave. Get home, I mean." Wally nodded in response, rubbing behind his head.

"Of course, yeah. That's a good idea."

And with that, Dick turned and walked away from the bridge, with a jovial wave behind him.

The encounter was quickly forgotten as he dived directly back into the creation of the art that he went to school for. His midterm in the practical arts class he was in was simple in wording - paint a painting. It was a free choice and he could do whatever he wanted. Everything, however, seemed to fall flat. Two weeks passed as the worked on that project, the professor allowing for extra time due to the nature of the project, and he would start on designs that remained unfinished. When it finally came down to the midterm week before they were made to turn in their art, he differed in his routine of returning to his home and painting the useless canvases. Wally spent less than five minutes in his apartment, simply throwing his satchel to the couch in his living room and scooping up the lighter one, the one that had remained untouched since he had begun midterms.

The walk was comparatively shorter than it had been when last he went, and the streets were still as deserted. He couldn't help but glance around at the neat rows of stones as he walked to the bridge, hoping that maybe, Dick - still a stranger to his - was there. Wally had never been a lucky person. So instead, he began painting, as he had weeks ago, letting the brush guide his instead of picturing his designs or thinking of anything other than his art.

An idea formed, and the next two days, he repeated the process, going back to the bridge every day to paint. It was almost methodic, and on the third day, when he had finished, he sat back on his haunches, staring at the colorful concrete. Space stared back at his, shining nebulae and clusters of stars dotting the fresh paint. He didn't notice the twinge of pain that came with sitting in the dirt, his knees protesting. But something else was protesting as well - something that said such a long project shouldn't be finished.

The stars were perfect, Wally knew that. He'd spent his childhood years, before he'd left his parents and they were his only solace, staring up at them. He'd memorized their shine when they were his only escape. But something was wrong with the painting and he didn't know what. With two days left until he had to drag his art professor out here, to this secluded, melancholy spot, his spot, he knew that it not only had to be perfect, but he had to feel secure in what he was doing.

He went home that night. His rational thoughts knew that he had done all he could. He knew that he had created something spectacular.

He skipped classes the next day, instead going directly to the painting, looking at the bridge in the rising sunlight. This time, he didn't miss the crackle of leaves as Dick approached from behind. He'd noticed him kneeling in the grounds of the cemetery, but hadn't bothered him, both unaware of how to approach him and acutely aware that he needed to grieve alone - he had experienced that himself. Instead, he moved directly to the bridge, staring at it, the same nagging feeling in his gut.

"It's lovely. I saw that you were finishing it." he didn't alert him that he was there. He felt his presence next to himself. He stood a respectable distance away, but he still had heat radiating from him. He didn't respond, and he continued. "I checked here. Never saw you. The painting stayed the same for a while. But then it started growing. You're done, right?" he said, looking at his and tilting his head in a way that reminded him of a puppy. His eyes were a deep blue and they reminded him of the starry sky, the way the light shined off of them.

"I… don't know. I think it is, but…" he shrugged helplessly when his words failed his. His hand appeared on his shoulder. It was warm, and he shivered as the rest of his body felt cold in response. He removed his hand when he shook, thinking it was his fault. He immediately felt colder.

"If you don't think it's good enough, then you'll never be satisfied until you fix it, am I right?" He nodded, still not looking at him. "Then fix it." With that simple statement, Dick ruffled Wally's hair, and turned to leave. Wally turned and looked at his back for the first time.

"Thanks, Dick," he said quietly, then followed in his footsteps after a short while staring at the mural.

The next day, Wally's art professor was set to meet him there. At his spot, his mural. He dressed formally, as he would for a job interview, and left almost two hours early. He knew that even if he passed the exam, he still wouldn't be satisfied, and he stared at the painting once he got there, eyebrows furrowed and lip between his teeth.

Then it hit him, with the assistance of a note scrawled in permanent marker on one of the supports of the bridge, sporting a small smiley face, the words 'You got this!' and Dick' name.

He had his paints out in an instant, creating something like a slope, a last minute addition that didn't look like it belonged in his rational thought, but when he stared at it he knew that it should be there. Two people took form standing, staring, hand in hand, looking at the stars.

He'd just finished when his professor's voice filtered from the gate of the cemetery, calling to him. Smiling, he went out to meet the other artist.

A few days later, Wally stood in line at the coffee shop on campus. He stifled a yawn as his stomach shouted at him. It had been a hectic morning - he hadn't heard his alarm. Again. When he reached the front of the line, he smiled as Dick looked surprised at his being there.

"Hey, Wally. What can I get you?" This time he didn't stutter as he ordered a black coffee and a muffin. This time, when his name was called, it was Dick offering the order. And this time, on the paper around the cup, in permanent marker was a small smiley face, the words 'You did it!' and Dick' name, with a number scrawled below it.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh... yeah. they're totally OOC. I know. Don't sue me.  
> I just loved the idea of a hipster Robin and a super sad Wally. I kinda headcannon that Wally is kinda depressed because of abusive parents and blablabla so that's what I included here!


End file.
